


Tell Me I Won't Feel A Thing

by ohyoudork



Series: Do You Know What's Worth Fighting For? [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of abuse but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyoudork/pseuds/ohyoudork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which Les Amis de l’ABC are university students who work at the Musain Grille restaurant.</p><p>---</p><p>It was cheesy, he knew, but Jehan just felt so safe standing there in the cold, his hands clasped behind his boyfriend’s back, holding on like he never intended to let go. In Feuilly’s arms, he felt like he was finally in one piece - a necessary half of a whole - and nothing could ever hurt him again.</p><p>(Or the story of how Jehan has a really, really big secret.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me I Won't Feel A Thing

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title is from "Give Me Novacaine" by Green Day.  
> \- And you can blame this pairing (my new favorite) on the fact that Jehan is in love with love and, as an orphan, Feuilly has so much love to give.

Jehan walked swiftly down the boulevard, pulling his red polka dot scarf closer to his face in a fruitless effort to keep warm. His long strawberry blonde hair had begun to fall out of its loose braid and, despite his cap, it was swirling around his face in the wind, getting more tangled by the second.

He loved the idea of a true winter - he had lived in Florida until he was nearly 16, and his Decembers were 60 degrees with a slightly chilly rain. He’d always imagined what it would be like to experience real winter; he figured it would be romantic, curling up in a big easy chair with a mug of hot chocolate, the snow drifting to the ground gracefully like a ballet.

Yet, New England winter was hardcore, blistering winds and ice on the streets making them slick and difficult to navigate even on foot. He still hadn’t gotten used to actual snow on the ground, and the below-freezing temperatures where you could see your breath had been so much more glamorous in his head. He nearly skidded into a woman carrying two bags of groceries and apologized profusely, his hands out ready to steady her if necessary. She shook her head with a tense smile, indicating she was OK, but she looked at him curiously.

“Are you alright?” she asked, breathless as she got a better grip on her bags. “You don’t look --”

“I’m fine,” Jehan assured her, placing his hands in their fingerless gloves on her arms for just a second and smiling. “Get home safely,” he called as he took off again.

Enjolras was going to have a fit. Jehan was already 10 minutes late for his shift, and the general manager preferred his waiters to be at least 20 minutes early. He could practically see Enjolras standing in the lobby, his arms crossed and his handsome face twisted into a disappointed scowl like some kind of drill sergeant. Hopefully Grantaire would be there though. The bartender had a more calming effect on the tightly-wound Enjolras than anyone had expected. Since Enjolras and Grantaire had finally stopped dancing around each other last week, the restaurant had become a bit of a playground. It still ran like clockwork because Enjolras would never accept anything less, but there was a smile on his formerly stoic face much more often. He didn’t bark his orders nearly as frequently, and he even let them play Christmas music throughout the restaurant, despite the fact that he found most of the songs repetitive and trite - he enjoyed when Grantaire would sing along, watching in both amusement and lust. Jehan loved people in love.

Even though he couldn’t say anything of the sort to Enjolras unless he wanted another incident like yesterday after he’d tried to share his sonnet about the couple. Grantaire had giggled and appreciated his use of rhyme (“Chardonnay” and “takes my breath away,” Grantaire had called genius); Enjolras, however, had turned the darkest shade of red Jehan had ever seen and didn’t speak to anyone except Grantaire for the next four hours. It had taken a bit of pleading and a promise to never refer to him as a “golden-haired cherub” again for Enjolras to forgive him. All of that would be cancelled out thanks to his tardiness.

As he turned the corner, Jehan was finally in sight of the Musain Grille. The snow was coming down harder now, thick sheets like an icy curtain, and he just wanted to be inside the warm building with his friends. He brought his hand up to his cheek for a quick moment and then sighed heavily as he kicked his mismatched boots, one black and one gray, against the outside door of the restaurant to relieve them of snow.

Pushing open the door and stepping inside, Jehan ducked his head, hiding half of his face behind his hair, and smiled for an instant at seeing Enjolras standing in the lobby with his arms crossed, just like he predicted. But his grin disappeared quickly as Enjolras opened his mouth.

“Prouvaire, you’re 15 minutes late. I know the weather is a mess, but you should have given yourself ample time exactly because of that. Feuilly and Eponine have been running back and forth with the lunch rush because of all the holiday shoppers, so just go get your name tag on and we’ll discuss --”

Enjolras stopped suddenly as Jehan finally raised his head, pulling his neon blue knit cap off, shaking his hair back, and revealing an ever-darkening black eye and bruise across the right side of his face.

Letting out a small gasp, Enjolras stepped forward, putting his hands on Jehan’s shoulders. “What in the world happened, Jehan? Are you OK?”

Jehan had worked out a whole explanation in his head on the frantic walk over - something about running into a door because he had been struck by poetic brilliance and didn’t see where he was going in his passion and his haste - but the words evaporated in Enjolras’ worried presence. He was so talented at concocting stories and weaving grand tales, but he couldn't do that to someone like Enjolras who valued the truth so highly.

“I’m fine. I just-just... it was an accident. I don’t really want to talk about it,” he managed to stutter out, looking down at the floor.

Enjolras reached out and tilted Jehan’s head back up to get a better look, one hand delicately holding Jehan’s jaw and the other on his neck. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look good.”

Tears were threatening to fall at any moment - Jehan had never been particularly good at holding in his emotions - and he needed to back away from Enjolras’ well-meaning concern.

“Yeah, I’m OK, I promise. I’m sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again,” he said quietly, unwinding his scarf and shrugging out of his coat slowly, rolling it into a ball and holding it between him and Enjolras.

“Has Feuilly seen you yet today?” Enjolras asked, still standing in the way of letting Jehan further into the restaurant.

At the mention of his boyfriend, Jehan felt a nagging guilt in the pit of his stomach. He’d told Feuilly last night on the phone that he couldn’t come over because he was knee-deep in drafts of his latest poem series, and he couldn’t stand to be away from his desk. When Feuilly had suggested that he come to Jehan’s instead, he’d practically yelled that he needed his “creative space” and he’d see Feuilly at the restaurant. He knew it wasn’t the right way to deal with things, but he’d panicked, rationalizing that temporarily pushing his boyfriend away would be better than what would have happened if Feuilly had come over and seen him at that moment, bruised and bloody and ruined.

If he didn’t need the money so badly, he would have called out of work today, too. He knew he would just have to lie to everyone he cared about. Yet, he needed every single cent now more than ever.

Jehan shook his head at Enjolras, a few tears escaping and falling down his cheek. He swiped at them angrily and then seethed in pain from the tenderness of his skin.

“OK, Jehan, it’s OK. But obviously you can’t work out on the floor today. Let’s go back to the kitchen - you can help Combeferre and I’ll put Joly on the wait staff. He won’t be happy about it, but he’ll deal.”

Enjolras linked his arm through Jehan’s and gently pulled him along, waving Courfeyrac off who had been standing at the host desk with his mouth open during the entire exchange. Jehan got that sinking feeling in his stomach again because he knew the first thing Courf would do is go find Feuilly.

Enjolras was careful to shadow Jehan, walking in front of him and to the side to keep customers (and their friends) from seeing him. Jehan couldn’t help but smile - it was such a paternal thing to do, wanting to shield him. Sometimes it was just overwhelmingly cute how Enjolras parented all of them, but especially him and Joly, being the youngest of the bunch. The first time they’d gone out to a bar as a group right before the beginning of the term - him and Joly with fake IDs - Enjolras hadn’t let them out of his sight. He was like a hawk, pouncing on anyone who so much as looked at them funny. Joly got annoyed quickly and snuck off to the bar next door with Grantaire and Courfeyrac, where the three of them got properly plastered and dominated karaoke with the best of the Backstreet Boys for close to an hour. But Jehan had loved Enjolras’ careful, guarding presence; it made him feel safe, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt safe anywhere.

He knew it was killing Enjolras to not ask a million questions; the general manager liked to stay on top of his friends’ comings and goings, and he didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark by anyone. Grantaire always said it was because Enjolras was a control freak who would have all of them tethered to him if it were possible. Jehan knew Enjolras wanted to be able to form some kind of plan or retaliation or intervention, but he kept his face like stone. Jehan deposited his coat, scarf, gloves, and bag on the floor of the small space they used as a closet as they walked by, and then entered the kitchen.

“Joly,” Enjolras said tersely, standing in front of Jehan so he had to peek around to see what was going on, “I need you to go out and wait tables today.”

Combeferre immediately started to protest, laying down the knife he’d been chopping up vegetables with. “You can’t take my sous chef, Enjolras. I know you all think I can handle everything, but I really do rely on Joly’s help. As obnoxious as his constant cleaning is, the kitchen has never looked or smelled better.”

Jehan fiddled with the hem of his floral-print shirt and stared at Enjolras’ back - he was pretty sure Combeferre and Joly couldn’t even see him behind Enjolras. He felt vaguely like a child being punished, and getting all of the other children in trouble because of his actions. Enjolras sighed and took a step sideways, gently placing his hand on Jehan’s arm to move him ahead.

“Jehan, what happened to your face?” Joly asked, stepping forward quickly. He placed his hands on Jehan’s cheeks, moving his head back and forth abruptly. “Are you hurt elsewhere? What did you do?”

“Joly, leave him be,” Enjolras said in that tone that meant business.

Joly retreated almost instantly, standing next to Combeferre in front of the stoves.

“Our Jehan is fine, but he obviously can’t interact with the customers with a black eye. So he’ll stay back here and help Combeferre while you serve, Joly. You’ve done it before - you’ll be fine.”

Jehan felt his face flush, and the heat of the kitchen certainly wasn’t helping things. He should have just called out of work instead of dealing with everyone’s overwhelming concern; he felt like he was upsetting the delicate balance of the restaurant’s inner workings. Combeferre cautiously went back to chopping vegetables, while Joly removed his apron and went to wash his hands thoroughly. After a full minute, he dried them off and handed the apron to Jehan with a sad look, still eyeing the bruise as if he wanted to check it out further. Enjolras squeezed Jehan’s arm tenderly, giving him a small smile. His blue eyes were stormy though, and somehow Jehan knew he’d be going right out to talk to Feuilly, who’d probably already been accosted by Courfeyrac. Enjolras followed Joly out of the kitchen with a very determined step.

Jehan tied the apron around his waist and then went to work tightly braiding his hair back.

“Here, Jehan, you can take over chopping duties and then get started on the fries,” Combeferre said, purposely avoiding looking at Jehan’s black eye out of that intrinsic sense of respect he had. He laid the knife down and then turned his attention to the veggie burgers on the flattop.

As Jehan finished with his hair and was making his way further into the kitchen, he felt a jolt as someone suddenly put their hand on his shoulder from behind. 

“What the --” Jehan managed to get out before turning around and seeing Feuilly, who looked a frightening combination of angry, sad, and worried; his eyes were glassy as he took in the sight of Jehan standing there. Jehan felt like bursting into tears for making his boyfriend that upset. In fact, he was dangerously close to doing exactly that.

“Sorry, ‘Ferre,” Feuilly said rather calmly considering his right fist was now embedded in the collar of Jehan’s shirt and his other hand was on Jehan’s waist, gently but firmly guiding him toward the back of the kitchen. “I’ve got to talk to him.”

Jehan sent a pleading look to Combeferre, who only looked for a second, sighed, and then focused back on the burgers.

“I figured,” Combeferre said, not looking up. “Just try and get him back to me soon. I only have two hands.”

Feuilly nodded quickly, and Jehan tried to swallow the lump in his throat as they exited out the back of the kitchen onto the tiny porch area. The shallow overhang didn’t do much to stop the wind or the snow from hitting them. It was freezing - below freezing actually - and Jehan wrapped his hands around himself tightly, staring at the ground to avoid meeting Feuilly’s eyes. He didn’t know what to say, and the eerie quiet was causing his insides to bounce up and down. All he could focus on was Feuilly’s shiny black shoes that he loved so much, the snow melting on them upon impact, making them sparkle even more in the dim winter light. Maybe if he stared long enough, the snow would just bury them.

“Are you really not going to say anything, Jehan?” Feuilly said at least, his voice quiet and trembling - whether with emotion or because of the cold, Jehan couldn’t tell. “Please look at me.”

Jehan closed his eyes briefly and then did as Feuilly asked, raising his head slowly, keenly aware of his boyfriend’s brown eyes glued to the side of his face.

“Tell me what happened,” Feuilly said, reaching down to take one of Jehan’s hands.

The simple touch was too much for Jehan, who finally let go of the tears he’d been storing up since he had walked into the restaurant. Feuilly tugged him closer and enveloped him in a hug, his bare arms riddled with goosebumps as he was wearing only a thin T-shirt. Jehan’s sobs were quiet and muffled and hot because his face was lodged in the crook of Feuilly’s neck. It felt so good to let it out, knowing that Feuilly was there to hold him and make everything OK. It was cheesy, he knew, but he just felt so safe standing there in the cold, his hands clasped behind his boyfriend’s back, holding on like he never intended to let go. In Feuilly’s arms, he felt like he was finally in one piece - a necessary half of a whole - and nothing could ever hurt him again.

“Please,” Feuilly said after a few minutes. “Please, I can’t take not knowing how that happened to your face. Who hurt you?”

Jehan tried to calm his breathing as he stood up straight. He leaned his forehead against Feuilly’s in an attempt to steal some of his strength - that never-ending reservoir of strength and curiosity and determination and tenderness that anyone could see after only a minute of talking to him.

“My dad... he loses control sometimes,” Jehan finally whispered, his throat nearly closing in around the words.

He’d never said it out loud before, not in all the years he’d suffered his father’s rage. He’d almost told his grandmother once, back when they still lived in Florida, but he chickened out. And there had been a handful of teachers since he was younger who he almost opened up to, but there was always something that stopped him - whether it was some kind of misplaced loyalty to his father or disappointment in himself, he didn’t know. Probably a bit of both.

“Your father did this to you?” Feuilly leaned back to get a better look, bringing his hand up to his mouth in shock.

Jehan had never wanted to see that look on his boyfriend’s face: his eyebrows close together and his brown eyes wide, practically screaming with pity and guilt.

“Please don’t-don’t look at me like that,” Jehan pleaded, sniffling quietly as his breath finally started to steady.

Feuilly brought his hand forward and gently pushed the hair out of Jehan’s face, his fingers tangling in it behind his ear. “How long, Jehan?” he all but whispered.

Jehan bit the corner of his bottom lip and looked down. “Since right after my mom died. So almost 10 years? It doesn't feel like that long.”

Jehan flashed back to the first time his dad had hit him. It was only a week after his mom had died in a car accident, and Jehan was still deeply grieving as a 11-year-old tends to do, through long periods of quiet isolation and, in turn, tantrums that were loud enough to wake the neighbors. Jehan had never been close to his father; it was always him and his mom, bonding through music and books and gardening, all the things his father hated about him. Jehan and his mom would sing songs while planting flowers in the backyard, read stories late into the night while cuddled in bed, play music together - her on the piano, him with his flute. With his mother gone, Jehan was left alone in the house with his dad who refused to call him anything but “Jean” and could barely even look him in the eyes because they were the same hazel as hers had been.

One night his father got very angry - Jehan honestly couldn’t remember what he’d said or done - and he pushed Jehan against the wall of the kitchen, hard enough that he collapsed down on the floor immediately after impact. When he started crying, that only enraged his father further.

“Real men don’t cry. Why can’t you act like a real man instead of some pansy?” He’d lifted Jehan to his feet, his large hands covering Jehan’s bony shoulders, and shook him roughly.

“Just because I’m different than you doesn’t make me any less of a man,” Jehan had shouted back, reiterating the words his mother had soothingly whispered to him so many times before when things had gotten heated between him and his dad. “Mom loved me for who I am. Why can’t you?”

At the mention of her, Jehan’s dad lost his last bit of control and slapped Jehan across his face so hard that he spun sideways and knocked his head against the kitchen counter. He’d blacked out and didn’t wake up until hours later in the hospital. When he’d blinked his eyes open, he saw his dad sitting in the chair next to him, his arms crossed and his face dangerously calm.

“I told the doctor you were horsing around and slid into the counter on your own. That’s what you’ll tell them, too, OK?”

Jehan could only nod, his head pounding like he’d never experienced before. His father then stood up and left the room, not a hug or even a concerned glance back.

“10 years, Jehan?” Feuilly whispered, bringing Jehan back to the present. “He’s been hurting you for 10 years? Why haven’t you said something? What about your family? Teachers? Friends? Us? Me? Oh god, why didn’t I notice this?”

Feuilly’s face had gone nearly white, his arms hanging helplessly at his sides. His lips were trembling, and Jehan could practically see the wheels spinning in his head - assigning blame to himself when he was the last person who should do that.

“Oh Feuilly, no, no. Please don’t even think what you’re thinking. You are the best thing in my life, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. This is not your fault. I hid it from you, hid it from all of our friends, hid it from the rest of my family. I didn’t want anyone to know, and I’m quite remarkable at keeping secrets when I want to.”

It was true. It had almost become a little game - or at least that's what he told himself sometimes to keep from wallowing. What new story could he tell this time to detour attention from his injuries? He used the incidents as inspiration for his writing sometimes, determined to find a purpose for the pain in some small way. Keeping the secret of abuse had honestly become a way of life for him. A kind of normal. But he could see, now that he had so many people who truly cared for him, it couldn't be like that anymore.

Jehan closed the gap between them and started rubbing his hands up and down Feuilly’s bare arms, afraid he was going to catch pneumonia if they stayed outside much longer.

“It’s not always like this,” Jehan tried to formulate the best way to explain it, if there was such a thing. “We go months without a fight sometimes. After the first time, it was nearly a year before he hit me again. And after we left Florida and moved up here, things were actually good for a little. He got a job he liked, and he was proud of me when I got into the university. Then last year when I decided to declare as a creative writing major, things went downhill. ‘What kind of job are you going to get with that useless diploma? Be a professional panhandler? Sponge off me for the rest of your life?’ It’s been pretty bad since. That’s why I got the job here. My scholarship covers tuition, but I never had the extra money to afford to stay on campus or get my own place. Earn enough money, I told myself, to move out and get away from him for the first time in my life.”

Jehan fantasized about that life. A life away from his father. It would be warm and enchanting and musical and safe.

But then another piece of him shouted about being ungrateful, about condemning his father just because he didn't know how to deal with his grief, about maybe if he was just a little more "normal" then things wouldn't be so difficult.

“He just loses his temper. A lot of the time it’s just yelling, him calling me a ‘faggot’ or wondering why I can’t be like everyone else or why I have to grow my hair long. He usually apologizes afterward, or totally avoids me. And I’ve hit him back, too. Although, as you can see right now, that usually doesn’t go great for me. I hate that I disappoint him so much. That I’m not the son he wants. It’s a vicious cycle. But I just can’t live like that anymore.”

Jehan’s voice had gone down to nearly a whisper; the words falling out of his mouth like they had minds of their own. He felt the tears threatening to fall again, and he closed his eyes, willing them back.

“My father isn’t a bad man. He just misses my mom. And he doesn’t know how to... love someone like me,” Jehan finished limply, stuffing his hands into his pockets and moving back from Feuilly, as if he needed the physical room to process everything.

Feuilly licked his lips, which was counterproductive given the winter storm brewing around them. He dragged his fingers through his short, curly hair and then down the back of his neck to rest on his shoulders. Jehan knew Feuilly liked to think things through, but the silence was eating away at him and he had already started composing a post-breakup, sappy sonnet in his head: “What To Do When Your Perfect Boyfriend Realizes Just How Damaged You Are.”

Instead, Feuilly took Jehan by the hands and pulled him out into the ridiculously small yard area behind the restaurant. The snow was falling so heavily that it was more like a fog, hiding even the fence from view which was only a few feet away. Feuilly snaked his arms around Jehan’s waist and kissed him softly, the sudden heat awakening the nerves in Jehan’s lips like electricity. Jehan breathed through Feuilly, wanting to share the same air, their need identical. Jehan cupped Feuilly’s face in between his frigid hands, wanting to hold them in this beautiful moment forever. Even with his eyes closed, he could see them - two figures entangled in the half-darkness, their bodies moving as one, desperate to be ever closer.

After a few minutes, Feuilly pulled his mouth back, breathless, his cheeks flushed instead of white. He grinned, and Jehan felt his stomach flip-flop like it did the very first time they met when he’d come in for his interview at the Musain. Their bodies still pressed fully together, Jehan knew neither of them wanted to actually stop. The warmth spreading from their shoulders to their shins should be melting the snow around them. Feuilly intertwined their fingers and pressed his nose to Jehan’s for a second before speaking.

“Your father may not know how to love you, but I do,” Feuilly said at last, his voice husky and his eyes sparkling no longer with tears but with utter infatuation. “I love you,” he repeated as if astonished how beautiful those words sounded for the first time. It in fact was the first time he'd said it to anyone since his parents had died, Jehan knew that. Feuilly didn't throw his emotions around easily - couldn't throw them around- and they'd even discussed that particular bridge before. But there was he, saying those little small words that somehow meant so much to both of them. Jehan decided right then that he could listen to those words until his dying day.

“I love you, too,” Jehan said, tightening his grip on Feuilly’s fingers, the phrase coming out of his mouth surprisingly easy. He thought it would require more effort, like it always had with his father. But, he realized, that was because it was a lie with his father. With Feuilly, it was so honest it could be written in stone.

“Move in with me?” Feuilly blurted out, not really as a question or a statement. “Please, move in with me. Combeferre is never home and even when he is, there’s plenty of room. I love you, and I want you to feel at home somewhere, and I think that somewhere is with me. I need you close to me. Please let me keep you safe.”

Feuilly lurched forward and captured Jehan’s lips again, short circuiting his brain with the offer of moving in and the passion circulating throughout Feuilly’s body into his. Jehan felt dizzy, delirious with happiness; maybe he was a drug or maybe Feuilly was the drug, but they were high on each other and nothing else mattered.

But it should matter. Jehan stopped suddenly, pulling back from his boyfriend and regarding his face.

"You feel sorry for me, don't you?"

The hurt that spread across Feuilly's face was nearly heart-stopping. Jehan knew it was cruel; he hadn't meant to be cruel, but it happened anyway. Maybe it was something in his genes.

"Jehan, no. This is not pity," Feuilly said, crossing his bare arms over his chest, snow filling in the crevices. "I've wanted you to move in basically since I met you. Hell, I knew I probably loved you the second we met. But it's through us being together, learning about each other, understanding each other - that's why I love you and that's why I want us to live together. Yes, I want to keep you safe. But I also want you to keep me safe."

With a wince, Jehan had to look away. Feuilly had had just as hard a life, if not worse. They both had yearned for love their entire lives and had never truly found it; whether it was Jehan's abusive father or Feuilly's string of awful foster homes, they were both orphans in a sense. Jehan knew it wasn't pity that Feuilly felt - it was kinship, a connection because of and despite of their pasts. He was more than his father, just as Feuilly was more than his murdered parents. They were not sad stories - they were success stories. And the fact that they had found each other in this huge world was mind-blowing in and of itself.

Jehan stepped forward to kiss Feuilly gently on the cheek. “Yes,” he breathed out, laying individual kisses across Feuilly’s face and onto his ear, the heat of his breath causing Feuilly to visibly shiver. “Yes, I will move in with you.”

Their mouths found each other again, and Jehan felt as if the entire world disappeared except for them. He wasn’t cold anymore because with Feuilly radiating warmth like the sun, he would never be cold again. The world went silent except for the sound of their breath, synchronized and in tune, a melodic buzz echoing in his ears. His body was like clay in Feuilly’s hands, melting and molding in response to each touch - in Feuilly’s embrace, he would be unblemished, his bruises healed, his soreness gone. It was deafening perfection.

“Oh hey, look, Enjy, I found the lovebirds!”

Jehan and Feuilly both jumped in surprise, nearly falling into the snow accumulating around their feet. Grantaire was pressed into the doorway, grinning, with Enjolras shamelessly grinding against him, his face buried in Grantaire’s neck.

“What? Oh, oh,” Enjolras exclaimed, startled, as he straightened up and pulled down his shirt that had hiked up thanks to Grantaire’s wandering hands. “What in the world are you two doing out here in the snow? Jehan, you’re supposed to be in the kitchen, and Feuilly, what about your tables?”

“I think they just needed some private time, Enjy - like us,” Grantaire said with a wicked grin, bringing his knee up to gently rub at Enjolras’ crotch.

Enjolras’ face turned so red that, with his golden hair, he looked like he was practically on fire. Jehan couldn’t help but giggle, and Feuilly quickly followed suit, chuckling as he leaned his head down to rest on Jehan’s shoulder. Jehan watched as Enjolras bit his lip and did his best to suppress a grin - their fearless leader was disturbingly good at it.

“Get inside you two before you catch a cold,” he said in his no-nonsense tone.

“Yes boss,” Feuilly said quickly, grabbing Jehan’s hand and pulling him toward the restaurant. “You two enjoy yourselves,” he couldn’t help but add as they squeezed past Enjolras and Grantaire to get inside.

Jehan pressed another quick kiss to Feuilly’s lips once past the doorway, murmuring a barely audible “thank you” into his mouth. Feuilly grinned and then quickened his pace back into the restaurant to check on his tables that had been absent a waiter for far too long.

As Jehan made fast work of re-braiding his hair and then brushing the snow off himself, he could hear Enjolras and Grantaire behind him, still standing in the doorway.

“You’re terrible,” Enjolras whispered, followed by a deep laugh.

“I am wild,” Grantaire responded, a growl in his voice.

Jehan smiled to himself and wandered back into the kitchen, wondering how long it would be before Grantaire abandoned his poor excuse for an apartment and moved in with Enjolras. Perhaps he could compose a ballad for Grantaire to perform as a grand proposal. It wouldn’t be as romantic as Feuilly asking him in the middle of a snowstorm, but it would make Enjolras blush from head and toe, and everyone would enjoy that.


End file.
